Sun Over Gold
by moon maiden of time
Summary: How Tulio and Miguel grew up and how they met is a rather interesting story...


Tulio knew all the secret hallways of the manor, which was a good thing because, since he was young, he was an errand boy/messenger in the palace. His mother did most of the work that kept them as servants. She spent her days scrubbing the halls, making sure they were clean enough that the Lord and Lady could see their reflections in it.

But of course the Lord and Lady were never satisfied, despite the amount of work she did. They were pretentious, snooty beings in Tulio's eyes. So whenever when they walked by, when his mother bowed her head reverently, eyes lowered to the ground, Tulio would bow too…but his eyes would stay up, narrowed and defiant. As his mother's eyes were on the ground, she never noticed how the Lady would frown and draw her hand back as if she wanted to hit him. His mother would also never notice how the Lord, dark blue eyes narrowed, would grab his young wife's hand and fold it over his arm, leading her down the hallway. And then, once they were gone, his mother, small and bent, would go back to her duties, silently washing the floors.

At night, even though she was obviously tired, she would work on mending their clothes. Her hands, small and delicate, were roughened by all the work she did and dealing with the thread and needle were tiring. If there was time, she would either pull down her battered Bible or a worn piece of parchment and shabby quill and would attempt to teach Tulio the basics of reading and writing. This was difficult though as the ink in the Bible was faded and the quill would leak or break, but Tulio was able to pick up some things.

It wasn't until he hit his sixth year that he realized his slight literary was strange. None of the servants—not even Abuela Linda, the motherly cook that knew _everything_—could read or write. Only Lord Jesus Luis could.

So Tulio, being the curious child he was, decided to ask his mother about it. He was always curious about his mother. She was uncommonly pretty for a servant with thick curly brown hair and unscarred light skin. She was tiny and extremely delicate with all her movements. She was clearly not servant material. So he asked.

Her big brown eyes widened a touch and she gave him a wan smile. Something flickered in her eyes as she said softly, "Your father taught me."

This was a shock. His mother never talked about the mysterious being that was his father. And he, although curious, had never asked about it. He knew that he _had_ a father at some point. With being a servant-child, no one was concerned about him picking up unsavory habits; he already knew how children came about. "What happened to him?"

A shadow seemed to pass over her face. There was something funny, something _off_, about her voice as she said, "He was a sailor." She paused, eyes searching, mouth twitching. "He died at sea." Then she pushed the subject away by placing a kiss on his cheek and ushering him off so they could do their chores.

* * *

Miguel looked just like his mother Isabella. He had her yellow-blonde hair, her big green eyes, her wide face, her square chin… he also acted like her. He had her love of laughing and smiling and her love of stories. But he was only a child, tiny enough to pass underneath the chairs without anyone noticing, whereas she helped his father out and was a lovely golden singing canary in the midst of dark men. She, laughing easily with the crude sailors and vulgar men, would carry drinks to and fro, alcohol sloshing about, the hem of her carefully worn dress gathering dust. The men called her the goddess of the tavern and would turn into shy, blushing children under her bright gaze. Rosa María, his elder sister by five years, would stare admiringly up at her, wanting her gold hair and her jeweled eyes. But Rosa María looked like her father: brown hair and dark eyes and dark skin.

Their father would work at the tavern beneath their home most of the time, but he, at heart, was a sailor. He would leave for months at a time, positive that Isabella with some help from Rosa María at the tavern would be able to gather enough money to survive. When he would come back, he would have tales of adventures and gold and many pretty things for his daughter and wife and a nose a little flatter from being broken once more.

He would gather his children around him and tell them all the stories he could remember. Miguel would gobble those stories up, loving them with every fiber of his being, whereas Rosa María, a little older, a shade too practical, would just narrow her eyes a little and take the stories as entertainment.

As always, during the middle of some tale or other, Isabella would walk by and would smack him with some dirty cloth. They would laugh and she would tell the children that a sailor once came to her castle in her home country, swept her off her feet, and stole her away from her throne. They laughed and joked about it, but the story seemed to echo in Isabella's delicate gestures, diplomatic manners, and eloquent language.

* * *

It had been a normal day of chores. That was why it was such a strange thing that his mother was so tired. But, then again, Tulio was starting to see how his mother, although young in age, seemed so old and tired. Her face was pale all the time, there were shadows under her big eyes, her cheeks were sunken, and her skin started to drag down in wrinkles. So he let her lie down on their tiny cot without any protest.

It wasn't until hours later when Tulio, woken by a strange noise, noticed something was wrong. His mother was curled into a shivering ball, withered hands pressed to her heaving chest. She was sweating, the beads glistening on her forehead, and coughing, a dry, hacking sound shuddering in her throat.

Tulio only had to see this before he was off. There was a doctor in the west wing—everyone knew that. The Lady had been finally deemed _with child_ so, to make sure the child would be safe, a doctor was placed in the wing, living there until the birth months away. He ran as fast as he could, going through all the shortcuts he knew.

In this one shining moment, Tulio was lucky to be a servant because he knew exactly which room to go to. Panting, scared out of his mind, he stopped at the door and knocked.

The doctor was a shriveled old man with wispy hair, yellow teeth, and empty eyes. "Yes?" he asked, voice wavering slightly.

"Something is wrong with my mother," Tulio forced out. "She's coughing and shivering and—"

The doctor held up one clawed hand. "Do you have any money?"

Tulio blinked blankly at the man for a second. "Money?" he repeated.

The man smiled grimly. "You provide money and I will provide the service. No money, no service."

Tulio gaped. "But…my mother…she may be _dying_!"

A disinterested shrug. "Do you have money?"

Tulio visibly wilted. "No, I'm a servant…I'm only seven."

The man looked down at him with narrowed eyes for a second, shrugged once more, and then slammed the door in Tulio's face.

Tears gathered in Tulio's eyes. With one dirty hand, he reached up and wiped away his tears. He still had one more place to go. He started running once more, heading back towards the servants' quarters.

He stopped at a rickety door and pounded on it. A shouted "_Ay_! What now?" answered him. An old lady, cursing darkly under her breathe, answered the door. She was slightly pudgy, back bent a little, gray-streaked hair pulled away from her wrinkled face in a plait. It was Abuela Linda.

"My mother…she's sick…," he panted, bending over a little to catch his breath.

Abuela Linda's face became serious. "What is wrong?"

"Shivering. Coughing. Sweating. Trouble breathing." His dark blue eyes darted up to her, frantic and nervous.

She slowly turned back to her room and went to a small shelf. Her gnarled hands fluttered over many tiny vials, searching for the right tonics. She selected a few and tottered back over to Tulio, leaning heavily on his thin shoulder. "Take me to her. I may be able to help, child, if we get there quickly."

When they got back to the room, Abuela Linda hurried to his mother. She poked and prodded, laid weathered hands on the sweating forehead, looked beneath veined eyelids.

Abuela Linda sighed, took one of the small vials, popped it open, and poured the liquid down Tulio's mother's throat. "_Ay_, Teresa, what happened to you?" With one hand, she brushed a few curly locks away from the pale, sweating face.

She sighed again, turning to Tulio, and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Child, I don't think she will last the night. I am sorry." Tears were in her eyes.

Tulio looked over to his beloved mother, eyes stinging and burning with unshed tears. It…it couldn't be happening. His mother…couldn't be _dying_.

Beneath the pain, beneath the agony, there was anger. Anger at that doctor. Anger at himself for being a servant. Anger for not having money.

With tears streaking down his face, Tulio went and sat by his mother for the last time.

* * *

They had known she was sick for a while. It had started slowly enough. A few coughs. Getting tired easier. Being able to carry fewer drinks. Her face lost its lovely golden hue and became white. Shadows showed under her eyes and stayed there, getting darker and darker with each passing day. Her cheeks thinned some, highlighting her wide cheekbones.

When Miguel or Rosa María or their father mentioned it, she would just laugh it off, waving her hand, and go, "I'm just a little tired. I'll be fine in a while." That was always her excuse.

She started sleeping more, working less. Rosa María started doing Isabella's share instead. Miguel would stay upstairs with his mother, watching as she slept. When she woke, she would tell him to go to her dresser and get the large book in it. It was a faded thing, with some picture on the front that he couldn't make out. She would read to him, stories of adventures and myths of old, and he would follow the words with his eyes. After some time, it was him that was reading to her, slowly, painstakingly sounding out the words.

Then, one day, she simply faded away.

Her burial was a simple affair. Cristopher, their father, was silent. His old friend Pablo stood by his side. Rosa María, tears in her eyes, stood between the two men, sniffling every once in a while. Miguel was off to the side, clutching that old faded book to his chest. Cristopher could not look at the golden-haired child without wincing.

A month later, Cristopher was on some ship, sailing off to new lands and new adventures. Pablo and Rosa María dealt with the tavern. And tiny Miguel, still a child, would curl up underneath the tables and flip through the faded pages of a book that told of adventures.

* * *

The Lady had had her children. Two of them, both thankfully male. It was obvious, even when they were only a year old, that they would take after their mother in appearances. Her dark brown hair, her dark skin, her dark brown eyes, and pointy, short face…beautiful on her, and extremely cute on two small children.

Tulio could always hear her shrieking about it. He had to laugh at her frivolity. Abuela Linda would frown at him when he complained about the Lady and her silliness but would say nothing.

He, still an errand boy, once accidentally walked in on the Lady yelling at Lord Jesus Luis about the children.

"They look like me!" she was shouting as Tulio opened the door.

She twisted around and glared at him. Lord Jesus Luis frowned as she stalked over to Tulio.

Tulio was just getting ready to shut the door and run back to the kitchens when the Lady grabbed his arm and dragged him into the room.

"You have a bastard child and he looks exactly like you!" She grabbed Tulio's face with sharp fingers and twisted it so he could look at her. "You will be nothing! You are only a poor servant boy!" She pointed one finger at Lord Jesus Luis. "Although you look like him, you are nothing!" With a screech she let go of Tulio and stomped out of the room.

There was silence. Then the Lady's words caught up with Tulio. Bastard child?

He scrutinized Lord Jesus Luis. Light skin. Long, thin face with a square chin. Black, wavy hair. Uncommon blue eyes.

"You're my father?" he finally asked.

The Lord sighed and stood. "Yes. But your mother was lower class." He cleared his throat, looking away. "And you are a bastard. You can claim nothing."

Tulio stared for a long moment at the strange, unfamiliar man. _Father_. Without another word, he walked out of the room and went back to the kitchens.

The next day he was told that he had been assigned to the stables now and would be punished if he was seen in the manor at all.

* * *

Time passed. Rosa María was old enough to care for the tavern herself whereas Pablo was a little too old and preferred sitting and resting his tired bones than walking around, handing out drinks.

Rosa María took over. She was only thirteen, but she was tall and stout. Living and working in the tavern for so long had left its marks. She could fight just as well as any man, could mix drinks as well as any veteran sailor, and could be as stubborn and hard-headed as anybody. She was rough to say the least.

Miguel, only eight, was still too small to help out in the tavern. So he would sit by Pablo and listen to all the tales the old sailor could remember. When he ran out of tales, he would bring out his mandolin and play. Soon after, he was teaching Miguel. Once Miguel picked enough to play himself, he would go out in the market and play on the corner, taking what money he could to his struggling sister.

When Rosa María learned about this, she yelled at him. But he could not be moved. If he could not help out in the tavern, he would help in other ways. She relented. He could be an errand boy for her and stay near the tavern instead of just vanishing in the market.

But two young children and an old man were nothing in some people's eyes. So one day, a man pulled a sword on them. Pablo, though old, was still a sailor and handled the situation well enough. He grew afraid for the children though. So, after Rosa María closed the tavern, he would teach the two of them how to deal with swords.

* * *

Tulio did not like horses. They were fine for riding and getting from place to place…but cleaning them? Caring for them? Ugh.

Tulio did not like horses…unless they were letting him escape. He had lived in that stupid manor with that stupid Lord who was actually his _father_ for his whole, though short, life. And he was not going to do that anymore. Not when there was only one person—Abuela Linda—who cared for him. Not when he was forced to do silly work for food that didn't even fill his stomach. Not when he was held in contempt for something he didn't even do.

He pulled a bag filled with fruit and rolls over his shoulder and twitched the reins of the horse.

Miles and miles away from the manor, he found himself in a city. A crowded lovely city, filled with people and places that did not know him. The first chance he had, he sold the horse. First chance he had, he found some filling food.

He walked through the city, loving every aspect of it. At first, he stuck to the gilded market place area. Then, after acquainting himself with that, he moved deeper in, to the back alleys. There he listened to storytellers and watched the matches between gamblers. A few hours of watching the dice roll, and he could see, by watching how they fell and balanced, which were loaded and which were not.

The loaded dice belong to a young man near Tulio. Tulio wanted to go up to him, ask him how he did it, but then stopped. He could see the looks on the other men's faces. Those years in the manor—of watching faces and eyes and reactions—had taught him how to _see_. The men were getting suspicious.

He wanted to leave…but the young man could only be a few years older than Tulio. His dirty skin and thin frame suggested that he was homeless…just like Tulio was.

Tulio leaned over to the teenager's ear and whispered, "They're getting suspicious."

The teenager glanced at him. "What're you talkin' abou'?"

Tulio watched the red dice in the boy's hand. "Your dice. They're loaded. The men are getting suspicious."

The teenager started. "You can tell?" At Tulio's nod, he looked away. Before his next turn, the boy smiled, made some lie, gathered his money, and, grabbing Tulio's arm, walked away.

He smiled, mouth full of rotting teeth. "I'm Jose, con-man extraordinaire. Di'you have a place to stay?" He ran an eye over Tulio's somewhat nice clothes. "You don' look like an orphan."

Tulio had to chuckle. "I'm Tulio." His laughter died as his eyes went away. "I…was a servant. Ran away."

Jose stopped and enveloped him a one-armed hug, laughing. "Tha's good. If your eyes are good enough to tell which dice are loaded, Juan would love to have you in the group."

Tulio had many questions but kept them to himself. He would find out everything when he met this "Juan" person.

* * *

Their father had finally come back. He had been gone for three years. But now he was back, with even more tales and more pretty things for his teenage daughter. He gave them to her and laughed when, instead of wearing them like she used to, started weighing them and muttering about price. He was completely enamored with her practicality, her determination to live a good life, her strength.

He had stories for Miguel, but he simply could not look at his son. Although Miguel was older now and had gotten taller and had filled out, he still looked so much like Isabella. He was also so much like her. He laughed like her and smiled like her. He loved stories still like her. He had to keep active like her. He was so much like his departed wife that when Cristopher looked at his son, his heart ached and pained.

Miguel was confused by this rejection. He showed off his skills of reading and writing. He told his father he had learned to read a map. He recited tales of adventures he had picked up from the tavern-goers. He played complicated, lovely songs on the mandolin. He even challenged his father to a duel, saying his skill with the sword was magnificent. But Cristopher would just look away and leave.

Then, one night, he left. The children thought nothing of it, figuring he would be back someday. It wasn't abnormal for a sailor to leave in the middle of the night.

Only Pablo knew differently. Cristopher had told Pablo before he left to take care of his children because he probably would not be back. Pablo, old and graying, said nothing to the kids and let them keep their dreams.

* * *

Who would have thought that when he entered the city four years ago he would have joined a group of children-bandits? They were all homeless orphans, sticking together for food and shelter. They built shelters in back alleys with forgotten WANTED posters and old clothing. They stole food when they needed to, but usually, they got money from conning others.

Tulio pressed himself against the wall and looked over to Jose. The boy was grinning brightly and telling the younger kids how to distract the officials. Juan picked his way through the kids and leaned against the wall next to Tulio. At the sight of Tulio's worried face, he grinned.

"Somethin' wrong?"

Tulio frowned and looked around the corner of the wall where a group of officials stood. "I just have a bad feeling about this."

Juan clapped a hand on Tulio's shoulder and laughed. "That's because you always have a bad feeling when you don't set out a plan."

Tulio, intelligent from his mother and Abuela Linda, was their plan-maker. He could predict people and could set up a thousand ways on how to get out of a situation. He was quick, physically and mentally, and could usually plan under pressure. But he was used to plans. Without plans, a scam could go horribly wrong. He couldn't recall how many times he had seen younger kids get carted off for conning someone.

Juan grinned. "This is routine, Tulio. We'll be fine." Still grinning, he pushed Tulio from out of the alley.

The scam wasn't even going for five minutes before everything went wrong. Then they were all fighting. Tulio, adept with a sword from lessons with Juan, stole one from some official and fought as hard as possible. It was only when he saw both Juan and Jose dead did he drop the sword and run.

The guards saw him though and chased after him. He ran and ran, tears gathering in his eyes over the loss of his friends. Then he saw a tavern and, figuring there to be a lot of people in it, ran in.

* * *

The bell over the tavern door chimed. Rosa María threw down her rag and yelled. "We're closed!"

Then she looked over. There was a young boy—probably not too much older than her brother—against the tavern door, looking for all the world hunted. He was much too thin for his height and his eyes were too shadowed, too dark, for a child his age.

Now, Rosa María was only seventeen, but taking care of Miguel—especially after Pablo had died a year ago—had caused her to gain a fierce maternal instinct. And those instincts were going off.

The door slammed open, sending the poor boy sprawling. Officers were shouting at him, getting ready to drag him out, when Rosa María went, "What are you doing?"

They all looked up as Rosa María, stout and foreboding, stomped up to them. She pulled the boy away from them and held him close.

Everyone looked confused for a moment. The boy was able to cover it after a second whereas the officers stayed with the confusion by asking questions.

"That boy was just in a fight. He was conning some officer and we need to take him."

Rosa María scoffed and pushed the boy away from her a little. "This is my little brother," she snapped. Then she turned to the boy and grabbed him by his ear. "Did you get what I sent you for or did you forget again?"

The boy made a show of wincing. "But, sister, there was a fight so I had to come back." He looked suitably frightened of her.

She sighed and rounded on the officers. "You've scared my brother and made him not get what I needed. Get out before I throw you out myself."

Not one man there wanted to mess with her, this frightening child with the fierce look on her face, so they left.

Rosa María grabbed the boy and dragged him to the kitchen. He spluttered something at her, but she ignored it in favor of shouting for Miguel.

Her brother came hurtling down the stairs, but stopped when he saw the boy. "Who are you?" he asked, smiling a little.

The boy glanced around nervously. Gulped. Then he froze when he saw the large plate of food Rosa María set down in front of him. "Tulio," he muttered and then started digging in.

Miguel sat down next to him and chattered on about everything and nothing, causing the boy—Tulio—to relax. When Tulio finished, they actually sat there and had a real conversation.

Rosa María stared at him for a minute and smiled pleasantly when he looked at her. "Do you need someplace to stay? I won't mind taking you in if you help us."

Tulio looked from the golden-haired boy to this frightening girl. And, smiling, he nodded.


End file.
